


Le Courant

by Smirkdoctor (orphan_account)



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017)
Genre: Hedonism, M/M, Overthinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:20:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28071588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Smirkdoctor
Summary: Is Oliver a god, or only a large, American man with large, American appetites?Elio imagines him consuming lovers, discarding tongue-cleaned skeletons along unpaved roads aside ancient stone buildings, rubbing his flat stomach in anticipation of his next meal.
Relationships: Oliver & Elio Perlman
Comments: 10
Kudos: 8





	Le Courant

He watches Oliver down the glass of apricot juice. How can one be so parched, so starving, to force such thick liquid down their throat? Nectar of the Gods. 

Is Oliver a god, or only a large, American man with large, American appetites? His Adam’s Apple bobs seductively and Elio crosses his legs, some deep, hungry part of him clenching, suddenly sensing its emptiness. 

In a matter of days, their houseguest is known and loved by all. His friendly demeanor and _muvi-star_ looks whet the small community’s appetite. Old men at the watering hole welcome him into their poker game; Elio’s friends and cousins beg him to join their volleyball match.

Elio imagines Oliver consuming lovers, discarding tongue-cleaned skeletons along unpaved roads aside ancient stone buildings, rubbing his flat stomach in anticipation of his next meal. 

He stares at the stretch of green fabric over round buttocks and the physical need to welcome him into his bed, to offer himself as the next sacrifice, burns at the intersection of his thighs.

But his teenage mind is not yet ready to meet his body in its yearning. Oliver’s casual touch, disguised under another thirst, strikes a nerve. That massaging palm is connected to a well-muscled arm which leads to Ray bans and a golden Star of David, head and chest hair slicked in expectation of admiration, of a feast in his honor. Elio freezes and retreats.

Elio shaves imaginary peach fuzz from his lips and wonders how his lanky androgyny will ever attract a lover if three languages won’t do it. His mind is a buffet, but physically, he embodies austerity.

He must _hate_ him. Oliver. Hates Elio. For his inexperience, the sparseness of his chest hair, his thin thighs, the fickleness of his appetites. For his inability to return any flirtatious serve. For his lack of abundance, his absence of offering to a man glutting himself via every sense. 

He lays down for a nap, nearly nude, but cannot sleep for the restless swelling in his cock against his cotton boxer shorts. It’s the only part of him that can muster activity in the squalid humidity. Flies alight on his hands, his eyes. He releases his caution with his breath and begins to touch.

Oliver barely knocks before he’s bursting through the door. Interrupting, like always. _L’usurper._

He leans on the rusty iron frame of the guest room bed and Elio steals glances from the pages of the paperback he has opened to cover his arousal. _Mon Dieu_. The short shorts, the broad, bare chest, the blond hairs covering chest and legs contrast confidently with Elio’s nearly hairless form.

_He’ll see him downstairs?_ He’ll see nothing. No matter the bathing suit color, Elio’s lacking physicality leaves him hungry for age, for maturity, for masculinity overtaking his body as Oliver has overtaken his living space. He wishes Oliver could _live inside him._

Elio drowns in the images of Oliver swimming, swollen muscles working under tan skin. He pauses, drapes his frame lazily and allows the sun to caress him. Asks what Elio is doing, what he’s thinking.

He lies. He is never thinking of nothing, it’s not how his mind works. Today his mind sprints ahead with images of clenching muscle, thrusting buttocks. Male bodies shimmering with hot sweat instead of cool pool water. His deflection makes Oliver turn to something else to sate his hunger. Again with the apricots.

He hears Oliver in every note he transcribes, plays him in every strum of his guitar. Today, he decides to fight his nerves. Today, he will _show him._

_Follow me_ he says, hitching too-large denim up acute-angle hips.

Oliver, barely clad in tiny yellow shorts, struts like a peacock, then displays in the doorway, posed and proud.

_Look at me,_ Elio’s body says, fingers striking the keys with false bravado, machismo. He plays his feelings on the piano.

_No no, play the other one._

Oh, he wants _l’original?_ Not so fast, Oliver. I’ll make you work for it, solve my riddle.

Elio drops names like Bruzoni, Bach, Lizst, begging in plain sight: notice me, notice my intellect. He throws out the last of the trivia, the song as a present to a brother. A fellow Jew in this strange, liminal land of summer, lust, hedonism.

He swivels on the stool, pouting his lips. Begging for consumption, promising submission. Let me be your brother, your husband, your lover. Let me share with you in the ritual feast. 

_I’m finally ready for you, Oliver, in all the ways that matter._

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the French phrase for stream of consciousness, "le courant de conscience".
> 
> I have a stack of drafts in my google drive that I'm quickly revising and posting. This is the last one for CMBYN for now, and I wrote it while watching the movie during a particularly hedonistic wine and cheese type evening. I recently listened to a podcast describing Oliver as a hedonist in this movie, living with his full senses, and it reminded me of this, of Elio scurrying to recognize his own hunger and match the object of his desires.


End file.
